


First Kill

by syntheticaesthetic



Category: Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Gen, Pre-Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-25
Updated: 2013-08-25
Packaged: 2017-12-24 14:28:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/941074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/syntheticaesthetic/pseuds/syntheticaesthetic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Dixon Brothers' father forces a young Daryl to make his first kill. Years later Daryl's first walker kill is just as jarring. Rated T for Dixon language tendencies, violence, and death.</p><p>Non-canon as of Survival Instinct.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bunny Rabbit

           Daryl Dixon hadn’t eaten for a week. So when his father walked in and placed a rabbit in his lap rather than a meal, he was needless to say a tiny bit disgruntled. Looking over at his older brother Merle to gage his reaction to the odd event only showed him an unreadable – if not slightly pained— expression. He raised an eyebrow at Merle, as if to say ‘ _what the hell?_ ’ As the tiny brown creature raised its face to his own and twitched its nose at him, Merle shook his head and left the room.

            Bizarre.

            The Dixon brothers had long ago learned to not ask their father questions when it came to anything. Punishment varied far and wide – you never did know what to expect with Pa— but you could always expect something, even if it wasn’t always immediate. Daryl drew his eyebrows together in thought, his brain processing quickly to see if there was some punishment he was still due for. He came up with nothing, at least if he was going by the usual rules of their lives.

            The rabbit was squirming now, the shock of the recent turn of events in its life wearing off. He held on to it tightly, confident that if he let a wild rabbit run loose in the house there’d be hell to pay. His father was puttering around in the kitchen now. Daryl was glad he’d cleaned it earlier after Merle got home from wherever he had been last night and had rather messily made himself something resembling dinner. If there was one similarity between seven-year-old Daryl and his father, (other than their appearance – Dixon men were all cut from the same cloth) it was that they both were clean freaks. Everything must be meticulously cared for and cleaned, all in its proper place. Daryl wondered how Merle had been allowed to live this long considering his inability to even find something clean to wear each day. He felt that he spent half of his day just cleaning up what Merle (and his father) had ruined, trying to prevent nastiness for them both. If Pa came home – whenever that would be – and the place was a pig sty… 

            His attention was brought back from his cleaning tangent when he realized that Merle was snapping his fingers at him. “Daryl!” he growled, pointing towards the kitchen. Daryl’s gaze followed Merle’s outstretched finger. His father had ceased doing whatever he had been doing and was looking at Daryl, a plastic bag filled with _something_ in his hands.

            “Take th’t rabbit inta tha garage, Daryl.” He told him. Daryl hesitated. “Git!”

            Daryl moved quickly, scurrying into the garage, his hold on the creature firm. Merle followed him at a more languid pace, dragging his feet. Once inside the garage he sat down cross-legged on the floor, trapping the rabbit in a cage of his legs, holding it still with one hand, while the other drifted to the vicinity of his mouth, his thumbnail quickly being placed in his mouth as it did when he was stressed. He had picked up that little habit from Merle a few years ago, copying his brother out of a want to deal with things the way the brave older boy did. These days Merle had better things to stick in his mouth other than his thumb though, and more often then not he’d snap when he caught Daryl falling back on childish habits.

            Sure enough as he followed Daryl through the door he raised an eyebrow at him dangerously before Pa stepped through behind him. Daryl quickly lowered his hand. Pa placed the plastic bag on the floor, fixing Daryl with a stern look.

            “Ya ain’t comin’ outta this garage until yer done, got it?” he asked. Daryl desperately wanted to say “Yes, sir” and be done, but he really didn’t understand, and saying so was the lesser of two evils when it came to doing something wrong in this household. He shook his head at his father. “I don’t get it, Pa. What am I doin’?”

            “Fixin’ dinner.” His father told him simply.

Daryl felt his blood drain as the man turned to Merle, telling him in a low voice to ‘make sure he does it and doesn’t pussy out’ before leaving. “Merle?” he asked in a quivering voice.

            Merle heaved a heavy sigh, before pushing off the wall he had been leaning against. “Alright, Darlina, th’s here’s tha skinny of it. Ya gotta kill that bunny rabbit there fer dinner. Pa ain’t gonna let us eat oth’rwise. Take this here knife,” he pulled out his own Bowie knife, thrusting it into Daryl’s tiny hand, “and git it ‘round the neck.”

            Daryl made a face, forcing Merle to reconsider. “Or ya kin just snap it. Might be less messy fer ya first one. Just make sure ya do, cuz I’m hungry.”

            “But Merle—”

            “When ya done, put it in that bag wit’ tha pan, and bring it outside. I’ll teach ya ta skin it.” 

            “Merle!”

            “Shuddup kid! Man up and jus’ do it! Ya ain’t got no choice! Ya wanna eat don’cha?” Daryl gave a tiny nod. He was hungry, just as he knew Merle was. “Rabbit is tha only thin’ on tha menu. Make it happen.”  Merle stomped off up the stairs back to the main house, slamming the door behind him. The small ‘click’ the lock made as Merle trapped him in was very definite.

            Daryl sat there on the ground stunned, his grip on the rabbit loosening. They wanted him to kill this little bunny? To skin it and eat it? Daryl didn’t know much about anything, but he thought he knew that the last thing seven year olds were supposed to do was to kill things. As he watched it hop around, finally free from him, he felt a panic rise in him. He couldn’t do this.

            His friend Sophia had a bunny, he thought worriedly. She called it ‘Bruce.’ It had the softest fur and the nicest kisses. Its nose twitched as it smelled his hand before taking little nibbles that never hurt. It wasn’t so different from this wretched thing sitting in front of him now, its ears all perked up in interest at its surroundings.

            They could be brothers.

            Why did Sophia’s bunny get to live and play, while this one did not?

            He was hungry. _Merle_ was hungry.

            Bruce had a neat little water bottle with a small ball in the metal straw. It made a funny noise when the bunny sucked at it.

            Daryl looked from the locked door he’d seen Merle disappear from to the garage door. The button was too high for him to reach and the only things he could stand on to make him taller were much too heavy for him to move. He was stuck in here until someone let him out.

            He was really hungry.

            There was no choice.

            He stood shakily, the bowie knife clutched in his hand (might as well do this properly) and made his way over to the bunny, launching himself at it and grabbing the scruff of its neck, holding it down and still as he drew the knife across its throat. It struggled and fought and made a noise that he’d never heard come from Bruce. He felt a heat in his eyes and his vision blurred but still he held on.

            When the deed was done, he was covered in the tiny thing’s blood, shaking like he had never done before. He sat back down, cross-legged again, and cradled it in his arms, sobbing, until finally the door unlocked and Merle lumbered in slowly. Some time later in his life he’d remember the gentle way that Merle had taken the still warm rabbit from his hands and placed it in the bag, before taking him by the small blood soaked hand into the bathroom to clean him up, before going outside to skin the animal.

             The smell of rabbit filled the house as Pa and Merle ate. Daryl sat at the table, eyes down. He’d been unable to eat it after all. Later that night, the boys got down on their hands and knees in the garage and scrubbed at the bloodstains. Everything had to be spotless. 


	2. Pa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> History repeats itself in the Dixon household.

            Daryl Dixon was hungry. As he dropped his keys onto the spotless kitchen counter he wandered over to the phone and pressed the button to allow him to listen to messages, he thought about what he’d make for dinner that night. He had some left over venison. Maybe he’d do something with that. He still had some of those fresh vegetables Marilyn Murphy had brought over for him, an apology for her husband hitting him over the head with a beer bottle after a stupid misunderstanding at the bar last week. He’d use up the last of that with the venison, maybe add in some mashed potatoes. And garlic. He’d add some garlic in with those potatoes.

            Merle’s voice interrupted his thoughts. “Have you seen this shit? I’m comin’ home soon as I kin, ta’night prolly. Maybe we’ll pop some beers and watch it on the boob tube.” The machine beeped. Just what Daryl needed – his high as shit older brother getting’ drunk and watchin’ the chaos on the fuckin’ news. Try as he might avoid it, the weird goings on hadn’t escaped Daryl’s notice, and nor, apparently, had they escaped Merle’s. But on top of his father’s ill temper and even more ill body, he had to deal with Merle’s shit? He just wanted to eat his damn dinner and to go to bed.

            Fuck.

            An hour and the smell of mashed potatoes later, the front door opened and then closed again with a slam. Daryl had to fight to repress a long-suffering sigh. There was a small part of him that had hoped he’d be able to cook dinner and eat it before anyone else had come home. “Merle?” he called. “That you?”  He stepped back from the countertop, peering into the hallway.  Despite his earlier reluctance, and as much as he and Merle had their issues, an even bigger small part of him looked forward to the times when Merle came home. It had been about a year since he’d last seen him, six months since he’d last heard from him. Despite his brother’s faults, he was still his brother, his blood and his kin. It would be nice to catch up, at least until Merle fucked something up again.

            “Merle?” he called out again, upon no response. “Merle?” He turned off the stove, walking into the hallway.

            Not Merle.

            Pa.

            The old man looked absolutely wretched. Daryl would never be able to fathom how he could go off on benders with these women at his age. He supposed it had to just come down to money and desperation. Still the old man looked worse than usual. He was limping something fierce and cradling his right arm to his side tightly, his left hand covering his wrist. The man grunted at Daryl.

            “Turn on tha bathroom light.” He ordered. Daryl raised his eyebrows. “Goddamn it boy do it!” the old bastard roared at him. Daryl shrugged, no longer afraid of the man, but still in the habit of keeping him happy.

            “What the hell happened, Pa?” he asked, leaning against the doorway as his father rooted around the cupboards, pulling out bandages and aspirin.

            “Fuckin’ crazy bitch took a chunk outta me, that’s what. Don’t fuckin’ ask questions.”

            Daryl’s eyebrows were getting a work out today.

            “She bit you?” he clarified, a hint of amusement in his voice.

            “Ain’t fuckin’ funny boy!”

            “Some people’d like that, Pa.”

            He wanted to laugh, at least until when his father held out his arm to him for inspection. The bastard wasn’t lying, his blood-soaked arm was seriously missing a _huge chunk._

            _Who the fuck would do something like that?_

Out of a sense of familial obligation he helped his father wrap the arm tightly before fetching him a beer to chase the aspirin down with – _dumb bastard couldn’t drink water with it like every one else –_ before sitting him down in the armchair. It was another half hour later that dinner was done and he walked a plate over to him.

“Here ya go, Pa,” he said gruffly, putting the plate on the coffee table in front of him, next to the still nearly full beer.

            Odd.

            Beer never sat that long in the Dixon household.

            “Pa?”

            The man didn’t move.

            “Pa. Food.”

            He nudged the man with his toe. Still nothing.

            “Pa!” A swift kick to the boot.

            Pa’s head came up, his eyes still closed. Daryl grunted at him, not knowing how to feel about the man still being alive. “Food.” He repeated before walking back to the kitchen and grabbing his own plate and sitting down. He still hadn’t touched his food. “Are ya gonna eat or what?” Daryl asked. A rasp came from the old man as he leaned towards his son. “What the fuck ya doin’ old man?”

            Pa reached out with his hands, gripping Daryl by the arm. He swatted him away fiercely. “Fuck off!” he stood, ready to fight. He wasn’t putting up with this shit, the old man bein’ bit or not. Ready to tell him off he raised a finger at him, the way a stern parent might, but before he could open his mouth, he stopped.  The way Pa was moving was…off. He stumbled around blindly, his body moving stiffly. Daryl’s mind flashed back to the newscasts. Those rioters, they moved the same way.

            _Holy shit –_

Before he could finish his thought, Pa had approached him, grabbing him much more tightly this time and leaned down, as if to bite him. Reflexively Daryl moved back, his foot catching upon the end of the coffee table and sending him flying to the floor, the old man on top of him, jaws snapping. He took note of how pale Pa was, how vacant his eyes were.

            Pa wasn’t home.

            “Let go! Pa! Let go!” The old man’s grip held fast. “Let go or I swear I’ll stab you!” Daryl warned, freeing his arm and reaching for the Bowie knife Merle had given him, who’s permanent home was on his hip, attached to his belt. “I’m warnin’ ya, Pa!”

            Pa’s jaws snapped again, nearly catching Daryl’s chin. Daryl thrust the knife upward into his shoulder. There was no scream of pain. Pa barely flinched. He was covered in blood now, his own shoulders shaking with the strain of keeping Pa out of his personal space. “Dammit Pa!” he yelled. He couldn’t keep this up.

            He remembered his friend Sophia. Her Pa had up and gone crazy on the family, killing them in a rage. The rumor had been that her Ma had been sleeping with some other guy from Bruce’s garage where her Pa had worked. Asshole was still in jail.

            It was kill or be killed.

            He had no choice.

            He slid the Bowie knife across Pa’s neck, the blood flowing heavily onto his shirt, his face turned as far away as he could, eyes closed. Pa’s body didn’t even respond, didn’t scream as Daryl threw him off of him, onto the floor, shaking wildly.

            Pa was still moving.

            The door burst open with a slam, and there silhouetted in the dying light stood Merle, who shouted his younger brother’s name, and rushed forward. Merle took one look at the situation before him and drew his own knife, slamming it down into Pa’s skull. Breathing heavily Daryl looked up at his savior, his body trembling and eyes wide. Merle reached over, and grabbing what was left of Pa’s beer, downed it in one gulp.

            An hour later, they had wrapped Pa in a sheet and tossed him outside, and had sat down to eat dinner. Later that night the boys got on their hands and knees in the living room and scrubbed at the bloodstains. Everything had to be spotless. 


End file.
